


The Ponies and The Horses

by metempsychosis5



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of Khuzdul, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Company Bonding, Company ponies, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Fluff, Gen, Hobbit Culture & Customs, Khuzdul, naming conventions, part of a bigger fixit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28044168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metempsychosis5/pseuds/metempsychosis5
Summary: Fili pointedly poked at what remained of his stew. ‘I don’t see the harm, Bilbo’s part of the Company now. What’s a few Khuzdul names to a halfling? Bifur speaks it all the time, after all.’Bilbo's named the ponies. Hobbit naming conventions turn out to be vastly different to that of dwarves.Part of a much bigger epic fixit I've been working on through the pandemic. Posting this lil snippet here in honour of this week's chat about Brego, Hasufel (RIP) and Jed's horse Seb. Shameless equine & Company fluff.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 99





	The Ponies and The Horses

**Author's Note:**

> My headcanon has Ori older than Kili, but not by much. I stretch Khuzdul and iglishmêk. Some references at the end of this snippet (like Fili's hair) will make sense in context of the bigger fic.
> 
> Don't own any of the characters, props to Tolkien & PJ, just love playing in the Hobbit multiverses <3

It was just gone two sevendays since they’d headed away from the Brandywine. Bilbo sat in the shade between the buttress roots of an enormous fig tree, eating his dinner alone again, Gandalf having gone to confer with Thorin and those dwarves that appeared to be his primary advisers: the two sons of Fundin, the old healer dwarf with the frankly impressive hooked silver moustache-plaits, the one with the great fiery beard decorated with beads, and the other thickset silver-haired dwarf with the multiple fussy braids and the solid clasp just under his chin. Not for the first time, Bilbo wondered about those braids and beads. Did they indicate some sort of seniority or rank? He didn’t feel brave enough to ask just yet, not when he hadn’t even gotten a handle on remembering their names, not when he was still quite tongue-tied around them, not when his presence was so clearly barely tolerated. He felt that whenever he said anything, his new companions would either look quizzical or laugh uproariously; the incident with Bofur’s makeshift handkerchief still smarted.

Cradling his stew, he miserably fell to attempting another list of the names of the Company in his head, when one of them sat heavily beside him.

‘Care for an apple? Bit of sweetness’ll do a body good after a day’s ride.’

Bilbo looked up at Bofur, who peered kindly at him from underneath the turn of his woolly hat. The dwarf was proffering a small wild apple, his other hand balancing his own bowl of stew.

‘Oh… thank you. Very kind of you.’ Bilbo self-consciously placed the fruit next to his bowl. ‘I was – ’

He looked about in some surprise as Bofur was joined by his brother Bombur, and their cousin – he knew the shock of black hair and the perpetually staring eyes atop which sat that distressing axe to be Bifur. They were followed soon after by the sharp-eyed one called Nori, and the small one with the knitted gloves, whose shyness and boyish attempts to affect the demeanour of a hardened warrior had endeared him somewhat to Bilbo, not the least because here might be one member of the Company who was potentially only slightly less incompetent with a weapon than himself.

The dwarves arranged themselves comfortably around him, and ate heartily from their bowls, at ease with one another and utterly oblivious that they’d made a certain hobbit exceedingly nervous.

‘How’s your backside, Bom?’

The dwarves chuckled. Bombur made a face and rubbed the broad muscles at the base of his spine. ‘Oh, just fine, thank you brother,’ he said drily in his lilting accent, then sighed. ‘No call to be at saddle since the eldest took over the merchant trade from Geertje. Never thought I’d be at it like this again. It fair damages.’

‘Aye, but least you got some good flesh to sit on. Not like these two skinny lads. Sore bones, boys?’

Nori, with a mouthful of stew, indicated his younger brother. ‘Ori knit us saddle pads.’

‘Bless me. Not just a pretty face.’ Bofur looked over at the hobbit. ‘What about you, Bilbo? Much cause to ride in the Shire?’

‘Um.’ Bilbo swallowed as all the dwarves turned curious faces on him. ‘Ah. Only to see relatives in the other farthings.’ He coloured a little as the dwarves frowned, of course not understanding Shire geography. ‘Not far. I haven’t been about beyond Bree,’ he pressed on a little desperately. ‘I guess Myrtle’s only just putting up with me.’

Bofur gave his head a confused shake. ‘Who?’

‘Myrtle. You gave her to me,’ replied Bilbo, looking around at the uncomprehending faces.

‘Myr-tle,’ repeated Bofur, and Ori paused in the act of spooning his stew and mouthed silently along with the syllables. Bifur scratched his head and made a little sign with his fingers.

‘Oh aye, the pony. Ah, well. I didn’t realise you’d given her a hobbit name,’ said Bofur, putting his empty bowl aside and stretching back, casually leaning on his elbows. ‘We just called her…’ and here Bofur grunted a guttural sound, Bilbo supposing it was dwarvish from the way the other dwarves gave a little start. Nori stared at Bofur, then relaxed, chuckling for some reason.

‘What’s this? Did we just hear you speak Khuzdul in front of the hobbit?’

Two more dwarves sat themselves to ground, both with full bowls of stew; it was the young brothers, Thorin’s nephews, who seemed to wave away any attempt to treat them differently. Glad to have attention diverted from him, Bilbo found himself watching the others’ reactions as the two settled down in their midst. Nori had squinted and looked to one side, Bofur and Bombur briefly and politely inclined their heads in welcome, while Ori had folded himself in half, slowly and deferentially, his forehead almost touching the ground.

‘Oh, don’t do that Ori. You’ll give yourself a crick in the neck.’

It was the dark-haired one who had spoken, grinning around a mouthful of food. ‘Honestly, you only started doing it when Thorin showed up. Don’t mind Uncle,’ he reached out and gave the shrinking Ori a playful clap on the shoulder. ‘You’re Durinsfolk, as much as we are. And for Mahal’s sake, remember you’re older’n me by three years. Older cousins already braided don’t bow to their youngers, it’s weird.’ At this, Ori looked self-conscious but pleased, hands moving to skitter across his short braids where they ended at his woollen cowl, his back straightening up.

‘Agreed, Ori. No cause for ceremony, we’re all in this Company together.’ Fili turned amicably towards Bofur, pointing a spoon. ‘Now, what was that Khuzdul for?’

Bofur shrugged. ‘The hobbit named his pony. I told him she had a name already.’

‘Oof, you know who’ll get stuffy if you go round talking Khuzdul to non-dwarrow?’ grinned Kili wickedly.

‘Aye, of course,’ replied Bofur assuredly, ‘Dwalin.’

‘Nope!’ crowed Kili. ‘He’ll give you a bit of stink-eye, but he’s – ’

‘Balin, then,’ interrupted Bofur uncertainly.

‘Nuh-uh. Balin’s reasonable. He’d be the first to tell you he’s got more important things to worry about.’

‘Lord Thorin?’

‘Come on. You’ve heard him curse in Khuzdul in front of humans on a bad day,’ Kili said proudly, Fili nodding sagely.

‘Dori,’ interjected Nori with finality.

‘Well, yes,’ said Kili, eyeing the slender dwarf. ‘Your brother does stand on ceremony even if we try to get Ori not to. But no, it’s Gloin you really need to worry about. Whoo-ee, did he hit the cavern ceiling when Oin swapped a few Khuzdul names of herbs for common with the halfling’s apothecary!’

Fili pointedly poked at what remained of his stew. ‘I don’t see the harm, Bilbo’s part of the Company now. What’s a few Khuzdul names to a halfling? Bifur speaks it all the time, after all.’

 _Hobbit,_ corrected Bilbo to himself, yet it was more out of habit than anything. Encouraged by the turn of the conversation, he found his natural curiosity bursting up from his chest, expressing words that until now had been stuck at the tip of his tongue. ‘Um, pardon my asking. You don’t have to say, if you don’t want to. But I am interested. What does Myrtle’s dwarvish name mean?’

Fili smiled at him, showing his dimples, and despite himself Bilbo felt warmed by the young dwarf’s inclusion. ‘Bofur? Go on,’ said Fili, nodding to the other to continue as he finished his food.

Bofur spoke again in the syllables that had grated harsh to Bilbo’s ears. ‘It means, “Little Trundle”. Like a minecart.’

‘Wheels and all,’ finished Kili. ‘Bit cranky, hard to get moving and harder to stop. She was a packpony before you showed up.’

‘Huh.’ Bilbo considered this. He rather thought Myrtle was a prettier name.

‘Will you give my pony a hobbit name, too?’ asked Kili eagerly, and Fili grinned at his brother’s enthusiasm for anything of the world outside dwarrow-kind.

‘I – I sort of already have. For all of them,’ admitted Bilbo.

‘Passing the time, eh, Bilbo? We’ve got a ways to go yet, you’ll soon run out of things to name,’ cracked Bofur lightly, pulling a wry laugh from the other dwarves. ‘You want my advice, try sleeping at saddle. Just try not to fall off.’ _They’re laughing at me, but they definitely don’t sound unkind this time_ , thought Bilbo, feeling a little braver.

‘Which one is yours again?’

Kili pointed out one of the brown ponies grazing on the hillside nearby.

‘Oh, I see. That one’s Toffee.’

‘Toffee,’ said Kili slowly, turning the word over to himself. ‘What – ’

‘It’s a kind of sweet snack that we make in the Shire, the same colour as your pony. Looks like burnt honey,’ said Bilbo quickly, his face reddening again.

‘Ah. Food,’ said Kili. He appeared momentarily torn between disappointment and fascination, his brother chuckling in mirth at his expression.

‘Can – can I ask what the dwarvish name is?’ said Bilbo tentatively.

‘Oh, sure,’ Kili brightened up again, glad to share. ‘It’s…’ The name sounded like ‘Falr’ to Bilbo’s ears, but he couldn’t be certain. ‘It means “Arrowpoint On Shaft”.’

‘What’s my one called?’ asked Bofur. With Kili still beaming at him, Bilbo was suddenly excruciatingly aware of the lofty poetic sensibilities of the dwarven language against the guileless simplicity of Shire common, which he guessed would remain sorely lacking by comparison. His throat tightening in embarrassment, he plunged on determinedly.

‘Yours is the dun... is that right?’ croaked Bilbo, and when Bofur nodded in the affirmative, replied ‘Daisy.’

‘Daisy,’ repeated Bofur agreeably, to Bilbo’s surprise. ‘I like it. It fits. I called her “Sunshine On Ore”,’ he said, following the translation with the Khuzdul. ‘Like finding a vein of precious metal in open bedrock, shining in the light of the morning sun,’ he savoured the words, his eyes twinkling.

‘And Bombur’s?’ said Bilbo, warming now to the task.

‘The red dun,’ said Bombur easily, gnawing on the end of a grass stalk, and said the Khuzdul word. ‘Means, “Bright Copper Of My Love’s Hair”,’ he added heartily.

‘Because it’s true,’ cut in Bofur mischievously. ‘The wife,’ he explained as an aside to Bilbo.

‘Oh! Oh, that’s lovely, really. Well, I called her Buttercup.’

‘Not bad,’ the large dwarf assented. He pointed to Bifur. ‘He’s got the red roan, what about her?’

‘That’s easy,’ said Bilbo, just as Bifur made a little spiral sign with thumb and two fingers. ‘Ruby,’ said Bilbo, at the same time as Bofur translated the _iglishmêk_ aloud, ‘Ruby.’ Bifur made a triumphant noise and raised his eyebrows cheerfully at Bilbo; all at once, the hobbit found himself bursting into relaxed and genuine laughter, right alongside the dwarves.

Fili, smiling broadly, lifted his chin towards the hillside. ‘And the others?’

Bilbo shaded his eyes and considered the ponies cropping the sweet grass. ‘The one Balin is riding. That very white one. Snowy,’ he pronounced, and Kili thumped his thigh. ‘We’re not so different after all! He called her “Winter’s Moon”.’

‘The black pony is the healer’s, I think. Rosie.’

‘Oin’s? “Fire Ember”.’

‘Hm, yes. And the red-haired dwarf with the great beard, I thought “Stormy” for his mount, because he’s dark and has a temper. The pony, I mean. He tried to bite Myrtle again the other day.’ Bilbo shrugged. ‘Does what it says on the jar,’ he added self-deprecatingly, but not without humour. He might actually be enjoying himself, he realised with amazement.

‘Fair call. Gloin’s gelding is “Boulder of Granite”.’ Here Nori snorted loudly, causing Bofur to grin and punch lightly into the muscles of the wiry dwarf’s arm, while the younger ones sniggered. ‘That one doesn’t translate well to common. _Not_ another way of saying big stones, by Durin, Nori, you’ve the mind of a stripling sometimes!’

Bilbo, vaguely understanding that the titters were down to some kind of dwarven ribaldry, waited patiently for them to calm down. Then he pointed. ‘There’s another pale grey. Bit more colour than Balin’s. Your brother’s?’ said Bilbo to Nori, who nodded wryly.

‘Yeah, the flashy one with the darker mane and chestnut face. Dori calls her, “Ice On Mountain’s High Peak”,’ he said with no small amount of derision. The other dwarves hummed with mirth.

‘I thought Minty.’

‘Hm. He’d hate that,’ approved Nori. ‘Mine’s the grey dun.’

‘Smoky.’

Nori made a grudgingly conceding face. ‘Y’know, I think I like that better’n “Dark Shadow”.’

‘And the dirty great blonde? The one built solid enough to carry our resident war machine,’ prompted Bofur.

‘Dwalin’s? Chalky.’

Kili fell over laughing. ‘S a bit different from “Battleaxe On Bone”,’ he hooted.

‘Mine’s got a strong dwarvish name too,’ cut in Ori, who had been fidgeting in eagerness to talk. ‘It’s “Boar Tusk”,’ he said proudly, and found himself accosted with backslaps.

‘Good on you, lad.’

‘That’s the attitude.’

‘All the way to Erebor, Ori.’

Bilbo was quiet, watching the unobtrusive little brown gelding nosing flowers on the hillside. ‘I call that one Bungo.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Ori curiously, once the others left off.

Bilbo chewed on his lower lip before answering. ‘My father’s name.’

‘Oh…’ murmured Ori, pulling book and quill from his leather satchel and making a little note. Kili and Bofur leaned forward attentively, while Fili sat back to listen, not wanting to spook the little hobbit from finally sharing something of himself.

‘Yes,’ said Bilbo reflectively. ‘He was kind, quiet, big-hearted. Yet determined. And stubborn with optimism. A gentle hobbit of words and verse.’ He looked at Ori now, and shared a tentative smile with the young dwarf. ‘Not entirely wrong, am I?’

Fili, impressed, gave Bilbo a tiny nod of recognition, while Ori ducked his head, glowing. Then he raised it again.

‘That leaves five.’

‘There’s Gandalf’s horse, but I didn’t think it right to name him.’

Bifur made a curious sign and the other dwarves picked up dirt and threw it over their left shoulders, Bilbo noted with interest. He let it go, assuming they did this out of the same feeling that had discouraged him from allowing even a nickname for the imposing creature. Names had power. You never knew, with wizards.

‘Strawberry and Hazelnut are the other packponies,’ continued Bilbo. ‘I’d run out of ideas, that’s what I had for second breakfast that particular day.’

‘Trundle Two and Trundle Three,’ said Bofur apologetically, ‘So did we.’

‘What about my brother’s?’ urged Kili. ‘His is the dappled grey. The one with the blonde mane. Like this,’ he grabbed Fili’s head, tilting him at the chin to show Bilbo the streak of silver-white that wound through the braid at his left temple, weaving through the golden locks and ending in a geometric metal bead. The bead looked the same as that which clasped Kili’s hair at the back of his head, Bilbo realised, and the one that sat in Thorin’s hair on the right side, where they had their own streaks of silver. Another dwarven cultural practice unfathomable to hobbits, no doubt.

Fili took this treatment tolerantly, grunting a little in mild annoyance but allowing his brother to hold his head in place and jab an insistent finger at the braid. ‘His pony’s name, in Khuzdul, means “Mithril On Gold”,’ Kili explained.

‘What’s mithril?’

The two young dwarves shot each other an almost imperceptible glance, Kili’s hands falling away from his brother’s face.

‘Dwarven silver-steel,’ said Bofur casually. ‘Used to be mined in what’s now known as Moria. Strongest stuff in the world.’

‘Oh,’ said Bilbo, ‘Well. I called him Misty.’ He didn’t notice, but Fili’s eyes unfocused at the word.

‘Mist… what?’ said Fili stupidly.

‘Misty,’ Bilbo said again, ‘…that’s the name I gave. Doesn’t really match the dwarvish, does it.’ Fili shook his head and refocused on him. ‘Oh… oh no… it’s… good. It’s nice,’ he murmured, blinking a little as if to clear something in his eyes. ‘Um. So that leaves Thorin’s mare,’ he followed on quickly. ‘The Khuzdul is – ’ and here Fili said something complicated that made Bilbo’s ears burn in sympathy for the dwarf’s throat. ‘Meaning, “The Way Ahead Opens”. That’s high Khuzdul. In low, it’s “Seeker”.’

‘Appropriate,’ said Nori innocently, which Fili ignored.

‘So, what name did you give Thorin’s pony?’

‘Goldie,’ replied Bilbo. There were a couple of beats of silence.

Fili smiled only a little this time, tight around the eyes. ‘Fitting,’ he finally said quietly, ‘but let’s maybe keep the common names to just us, shall we?’ Beside him, Kili had become inexplicably quiet, and the rest of the Company retreated to their own thoughts.

Just then they heard a call from across the camp, a deep resounding voice, echoing on the meadowed hillside. ‘Fili! Kili! Are the ponies watered?’ It was Thorin; the other dwarves and Gandalf were emerging from their council.

‘Did I say something wrong?’ said Bilbo in some consternation as the two heirs leapt up in haste. He berated himself inwardly. Had he found a new camaraderie with some of the dwarves, only to immediately and inadvertently have it lost? _Put my foot right in it_ , _somehow,_ he thought sourly.

‘Oh, no. No, Bilbo, it’s fine,’ said Bofur, getting up with his bowl and motioning for Nori to help him gather up the others. ‘We like your names.’

‘Yours are poetry,’ Bilbo was downcast, seeing the way the rest of the dwarves quickly excused themselves and went about their duties.

‘Aye. And yet sometimes simple is best,’ said Bofur, and winked at him. ‘We dwarves get far too caught up in ourselves, as you’ll come to see if you haven’t already. Come on now. Help us with the dishes, will you?’

If only to cling to that tenuous feeling of belonging that was already fast slipping away, Bilbo was only too happy to oblige.

**Author's Note:**

> 'Falr' comes from Gould 1929 Dwarf-Names: A Study in Old Icelandic Religion, https://www.jstor.org/stable/457704?seq=1
> 
> And yes. I watched every pony scene to get the colours 80% right ;)
> 
> Edit 2/2021: if you enjoy this fic and want to see the ponies' names in neo-Khuzdul, head over to Chapter 8 of 'A Wound Twice Cauterized By Fire' where you'll find a slightly different version with translations as checked by The Dwarrow Scholar.


End file.
